


Naught

by Lucy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:50:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucy/pseuds/Lucy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock announces his latest deduction without regard to consequence it sets up a course of action that could destroy Gregory Lestrade, unless Sherlock can convince his brother to intervene. All while tracking down a serial killer targeting rare Omegas.   A/B/O dynamics but mostly in a political sense. Written for the Summer Mystrade Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crystalemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalemi/gifts).



> So, as it says on the tin this is Omegaverse, but in a mostly political sense. There's not going to be a lot of talk about knotting, and no MPREG of any kind. I'm interested in the relationship dynamics in an A/B/O world, mostly in the battle of personality and actual want verses biological imperative. Expect misanthropic alpha Mycroft, seriously reluctant omega Greg, and a story about how they can make a relationship neither of them wants at first actually work. 
> 
> A gift for the Summer Mystrade Exchange on Tumblr, for Crystalemi. (I get the feeling this won't be as smutty as you may like, Crystal, sorry.)

“You’re a Naught.”

Like so many of the earth-shattering statements Sherlock tended to casually utter, this one was flat and emotionless. The only inflection was a slight hint of curiosity.

For a moment no one responded. They were at a crime scene, after all, and Greg's team had better things to do than listen to Sherlock’s judgments. The title of 'Naught' might have caught their attention any other time, but the crime scene was the home of a registered Naught, so the word had been flying around since the first constables arrived and found the man dead. Naughts were usually rare birds at crime scenes, at least as victims, but this was the third one in as many months.

So for a moment after Sherlock spoke, while Greg's gut plunged into an ice bath and his throat dried up into rice paper, he didn’t actually react. He sipped the coffee in his hand, he studied the dead man, the tattered flat around them. And he tried to ignore that Sherlock’s unblinking stare was on Greg.

He didn’t respond to the words. If no one responded, they might just go away.

Beside Sherlock, John was the first to stir. He nudged Sherlock’s arm. “Go on. They already know the man was a Naught. You’re off to a slow start this time round.”

Sherlock barely glanced at the body, disregarding the words. He rose, straightening his long body in a swift, graceful movement Greg couldn’t have aped if he’d tried, even back before his knees started creaking after long days.

“Not him. You.” Sherlock stepped over the corpse and closed in on Greg. “And you’ve hidden it.”

Greg had always regarded this moment as a possibility. Almost an inevitability, at least since Sherlock came into things and began invading his life. But now that the inevitable seemed to be happening, he had to fight to keep from physically backing away from it.

He schooled his expression, gripping the paper cup in his hand until it started to bend under his fingers. “This is a homicide, Sherlock. Serial homicide, it's looking.” His words came out even but staccato, nerves showing in the tightness of his tone. “And while I know that's great fun for you, it's not something I want to continue. So. It would help if you’d focus.”

It was a feeble attempt to distract the truth out of Sherlock’s eyes, and of course it didn’t work for a moment. Sherlock’s gaze hadn’t moved from Greg’s face, and he’d gone razor-sharp and intense the way he only did when mysteries were at hand.

Suddenly Greg, apparently, was a mystery.

And that was it, really. It was over. Sherlock Holmes never let a mystery go unsolved, and he never saw a secret that he didn’t blurt to anyone who would listen. Sherlock knew. He saw something, or maybe just spontaneously put together years of clues that Greg tried so fucking hard not to leave, and now Greg’s life was over. Just like that.

In public. At a crime scene. In front of his team. Greg couldn’t think of a worse time and place.

He stood there, slowly crushing his coffee cup in his hand, watching Sherlock stalk towards him, feeling the activity in the room around them slowing as people wondered what had caught the infamous Sherlock Holmes’ attention.

Sherlock closed the distance between them, studying Greg so intently he was almost surprised Sherlock didn’t pull out his magnifying glass and really go to town.

“I’ve only met a handful,” Sherlock said, his voice a low rumble. Not low enough, though. “None who took suppressants, though. That _is_ what you put in your coffee earlier, yes?” So casual, so eager to show off one more revelation that he didn't stop to think about the repercussions.

Greg hated him in that moment.

John approached Sherlock from behind, confusion a furrow in his brow as he looked from Greg to Sherlock's profile. “Are you saying--”

“Oi, freak, what’re you talking about?” Sally had been behind Greg, watching the forensics team map out the blood trail leading to the body. But then there she was, approaching, listening.

Greg's eyes closed. He bent his head.

Sherlock didn’t realise. He just went on like it was any other clue at any other crime scene, and not the end of Greg’s life.

“I’ve noticed before. You always take your tea and coffee with two sugars, but now and then you add in an extra packet of sweetener once it arrives. I took it as simply an inconsistent sense of taste, or varying quality of drinks. But just this week I read of a case in Spain, a man arrested for supplying suppressant drugs to Naughts. Entirely illegal, but he was quite clever in his distribution schemes. One of his preferred methods? Powdered pills in sweetener packets. Remarkably ordinary, more than enough to administer a full dosage over two or three cups of tea, and if one should be used by someone other than the Naught it would have no measurable effects after a trip to the toilet.”

“Sherlock, you're not saying...” As always, John's thoughts were more in the real world than Sherlock's, and his gaze was wide and startled as he looked at Greg. “You're not.”

Greg had always planned what he'd say in this circumstance. Deny, that was the mantra. Deny, deny. They would have to conduct blood tests to prove the claims, and Greg was too well-established to be put through that over hearsay.

But Sherlock and John were staring at him, and the crime scene was dead silent around them, and Greg had already missed his chance to laugh it off.

Besides, thanks to Greg himself and his insistence on talking up Sherlock's skills, this deduction wouldn't be called mere hearsay.

“Boss.” Sally's voice was low, and close.

Greg swallowed and forced his eyes up and over.

She studied him, ready to laugh off Sherlock's words. Ready to stand by Greg if he waved the words away. But even as he looked at her, her eyes grew rounder in shock. Her face went slack, head shaking unconsciously. “It's ridiculous,” she said, but there was no conviction in it.

Greg looked away again. He'd faced criminals and guns and Chief Supers with chin held high and gaze steady, but this. This bent him down. He looked at the coffee cup in his hand, bleak, and when he spoke he couldn't meet her eyes again.

“Finish up here. You'll have to call the CI. He might hand these homicides to Gregson, but you should try to hang on to them. You're experienced enough to lead this type of...” He trailed off.

He was done. He was gone, and Sally and these dead men and Sherlock and the whole lot of it, it wasn't his anymore. He was finished. And shock, apparently, made his thoughts a bit slow and muddy.

He turned, feeling the silence around him like a heavy blanket. The silence only followed as he left the room, and then the house, behind.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stirred as Lestrade started to leave. “Lestrade. I have questio--”

Luckily John was used to him enough to grab his arm before he could move. He held tightly, ignoring the glare Sherlock shot him, and his gaze went to Sally in anticipation.

Sure enough as the last few minutes sank in and Lestrade left them behind, the light of revelation cleared the dull surprise from Sally's eyes, and her quickly sharpening gaze went to Sherlock. Her jaw tightened, her shoulders squared. Her hands fisted at her sides.

John edged in front of Sherlock even as Sally spoke.

“Get him out of here.”

He nodded fast, his grip still tight on Sherlock's arm. “Right. Sherlock, let's go.”

Sherlock's arm tensed as he tried to shake John off. “I'm working. Where the hell's he going, I wasn't done.”

“John.” Sally's gaze hadn't moved from Sherlock for an instant. “Get him out. Now.”

Sherlock's eyes slid to her, his mouth creasing in the inevitable smirk. “Because you lot are doing such a brilliant job finding this kill-”

“ _Now!_ ” Her voice was a shout, sudden and sharp, like an unexpected gunshot. “Get out! Get out before I fucking well add to the body count in this flat.”

Not an idle threat, John had a feeling. She wouldn't kill him, of course, but violence seemed to be a real possibility.

He stepped between the two of them, turning to face Sherlock and shove him backward towards the door. “Go.”

The light of confusion was just starting to filter into Sherlock's face. “Is this about--”

“Sherlock. Turn around and walk out. Now.”

Sherlock hesitated, but his mouth closed. For a moment he looked betrayed, but he turned on his heel and strode out the door, as flouncy as any teenager in a snit.

John glanced back at Sally, ready to offer some useless too-little-too-late-too-common apologies on behalf of Sherlock. But the brightness in her eyes and those tightly clenched fists made him think twice. This wouldn't be fixed in a day.

He followed Sherlock.

Sherlock performed one of his favourite tricks, seeming to lift a hand and summon a taxi out of the ether. By the time John reached him he was seated inside, spine stiff but face thoughtful.

John got in beside him and shut the door.

In the silence of the first few minutes of the drive, John kept replaying the last few minutes in that house. The way everything had been moving along the same as a hundred other cases, and then the slam to a stop that had been Sherlock's abrupt statement.

“ _You're a Naught.”_

He saw in his mind's eye the way that Greg's face had gone instantly sheet-white, and though he feigned casualness for another moment or two, Greg was a shit liar and the truth broadcasted from him even as he stood there.

And then he turned and left. Walked away, defeated, as destroyed in those few minutes as any murderer casually caught by the great Sherlock Holmes. Greg, their friend. Sherlock's champion. Brought to his knees in one second, with one word.

If he'd thought about it he might have stalled long enough to let Sally take a swing.

He looked straight ahead at the cracking old leather of the back of the taxi's front seat. “You know what you've done, don't you?”

Sherlock stirred beside him. “You're angry.”

“Of course I'm angry!” John's mouth snapped shut and he looked out the window, drawing in a deep breath and holding it until he could answer more evenly. “You just destroyed a man while I watched. You just fucking well ruined him. A friend. A _good_ friend. Like it was easy for you.”

Sherlock turned to him. John couldn't look at him, but he could feel that gaze. It always landed with a tangible weight. “How did I...is this about those ridiculous outdated Omega laws?”

John's throat worked. “Which laws? The ones that say he can't hold a job as an bonded Omega? The ones that say unregistered Naughts are breaking laws just by existing? Oh, or the ones that mean if he really is on suppressants, which he must be and he must have been all his fucking life, he'll probably end up rotting in a prison somewhere until he dies? Maybe, Sherlock.”

“It's rubbish archaic nonsense.”

“Of course it is. Of fucking _course_ it is. But you know the thing about rubbish archaic laws? They're still laws! And you know who cares the most about laws? The police.” John rubbed at his face, still unable to look to the side. “Why, why could you not for once just think ahead before you opened your mouth? Christ, Sherlock. Your whole bloody family's Alpha, right? You of all people should have known better.”

“I was...” There was a pause.

It was so unlike Sherlock to not finish a thought that John forced himself to turn his head and look.

Sherlock's eyes were wide, a little lost, but full of a million thoughts John probably couldn't have understood if he tried. “I'm right about him.”

John looked away again, fast.

“He's been living a lie, the entire time I've known him. And I never picked up on it. He tricked me, of all people. “

“You're going to make this about you, then?”

Sherlock's gaze landed heavy on him again.

John breathed in and out a few times. Counting to ten was supposed to be an anger management trick, right?

“You're beta, John. You don't understand.”

“Right. Right, me and...what was the last estimate? Ninety-three percent of the population? That's what the world is now, Sherlock. Betas. That's the normal.”

“Since when has 'normal' ever been a desirable characteristic?”

John twisted a glare on Sherlock. “You prick.”

Sherlock didn't roll his eyes or smirk in response. He sat there, brow furrowed and eyes glimmering as his brain worked overtime.

After a minute of tense silence, Sherlock leaned forward and cleared his throat. “Forget Baker Street, take us to New Scotland Yard.”

The driver barely grunted in acknowledgment, and they were off.

John wanted to ask, to see if Sherlock had thought of some way to fix what he'd just broken, but he didn't. He sat back stiff against the seat, and he didn't acknowledge Sherlock for the rest of the drive.

 

* * *

 

Greg had only had a few minutes head start on them, but when the lift doors opened and they stepped onto the Major Crimes' floor, activity was at a standstill. Every single person in sight was standing still and straight, looking through the glass into the office of DI Greg Lestrade.

Greg stood in profile to the glass walls, talking grimly to a man John's fist remembered as the Chief Superintendent. A couple of other men were in with them, and everyone was standing utterly stiff and serious.

Sherlock moved faster than John, taking long strides towards the office. But he stopped, so abrupt that John nearly ran into him.

They stood right on top of each other and watched as Greg turned his back on the three men in his office, his arms moving behind his back. They saw the flash of handcuffs from the pocket of one of the CS's lackeys.

The already still room seemed to shrink as shock rippled through Major Crimes. The second lackey approached Greg and circled round him, reaching into his jacket and removing his wallet, pulling out his warrant card and tossing it on his desk.

Greg had an iffy reputation at NSY. His team's solve rate, with Sherlock's help, was undeniably above average, but between mountains of press and unorthodox methods he was in trouble with his superiors about as often as he was in their good graces. But the CS, a man John had never liked, didn't seem to be taking any pleasure from this. He patted Greg's shoulder and spoke, and Greg turned to face him, bringing his hands to the front. He was cuffed at his stomach, a sort of kindness, John supposed.

And when the door opened and the two men steered Greg out, the Chief followed them more slowly, looking bent. His gaze found Sherlock, and twisted into a glare.

Sherlock's focus was on Greg as they passed to go to the lift, but he didn't speak, and Greg didn't so much as glance at him.

The Chief paused in front of them. His eyes were hard. “Mr. Holmes. Do you have business here?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Then you should leave.”

Sherlock's eyes followed him to the lift, and watched as Greg was led in and the three men crowded in after him.

When the lift doors shut the room around them finally stirred into life.

John, quick to notice the whispers and the eyes that turned their way, gripped Sherlock's arm. “You heard the man, let's go. Quickly.”

Sherlock moved where John led, and when John caught sight of his face he saw an unfamiliar expression there. Confusion, surprise. Something hadn't gone at all the way Sherlock Holmes had expected it to go.

But as they found the door to the stairwell and began the walk back down, Sherlock's shock seemed to shake off of him. Only two flights down he stopped suddenly and faced John.

“It's only the law, isn't it?”

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock waved a pale hand, a gesture that somehow seemed to encompass all the events of the last...Christ, had it been just an hour or so? “I mean it's absurd. He's not a real criminal. No one wants to arrest him, and as you yourself noted, ninety-three percent of the population don't care in the slightest. It's only a law doing this.”

John frowned. “What are you thinking? You might be willing to cheerfully bend laws when you need to, but Greg isn't--”

“The law shouldn't be bent, it should be eradicated. And the very man who could best do that owes me a whole lifetime of favours.”

John blinked, but put it together a moment later. “Mycroft.”

Sherlock nodded once, satisfied, and pulled out his phone as he started moving down the stairs again.

John was less hopeful. “Mycroft. Your brother. The man so proud to be an alpha I'm surprised he hasn't stitched As onto those fancy suits of his like the reverse of a Hawthorne novel.”

Sherlock's fingers hesitated in mid-dial.

John nudged at his arm, pushing him into motion again. “Don't stop, by all means call him. He's always had a soft spot for Greg, right?”

“That was before.” Sherlock cut off the call, lowering his phone. Any pleasure in thinking of a solution seemed to be fading fast. “You're right. Most of the population doesn't care for Naught laws. But some do. Alphas more than anyone.”

“You're an alpha.”

“Barely.” Sherlock frowned. “And this isn't the first subject about which my brother and I have opposite opinions. Mycroft is conservative. He has to be in his position. The halls of government are filled with Alphas, that's why those archaic laws are still on the books. He won't go against his entire government. Not for me.”

John let out a breath, but nudged at Sherlock's arm. “Maybe not, but you're still going to ask.”

Sherlock hesitated, but shoved his phone in his pocket. “In person. Let's go.”

 


End file.
